


the last enemy to be destroyed

by lightfighter



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Old Guard (Movie 2020) Fusion, Blood and Violence, F/F, Immortality, That's right, but also very tired, eve is a badass ancient immortal, eve is an IILF (immortal i'd like to...), so it's gonna be great, villanelle is a brand new immortal, who is not tired but is also not interested in helping people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:47:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27582934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightfighter/pseuds/lightfighter
Summary: Villanelle hated army life. She didn't think her solution would come in the form of her death, and then her return to life, but she'll take it. And now there's this team of immortal super soldiers bent on getting her to join them help save society or whatever, and while she couldn't care less about that, she's quite interested in their leader, the gorgeous and completely uninterested Eve. Between a conspiracy to reveal their secret and doom them all, and also getting Eve to stop shooting her, Villanelle thinks she might stick around for a bit and see how things play out.[The Old Guard AU]
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 93
Kudos: 203





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right, I'm back with another multichapter AU! This is what happens when I endlessly talk to myself on Twitter and am then enabled. Old Guard AU time baby!

When the perishable puts on the imperishable, and the mortal puts on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written: “Death is swallowed up in victory.” 1 Corinthians 15:54

* * *

Blood slowly pools across the steel floor, individual pools spreading, joining, so dark it is almost black. The bodies it comes from are still, lifeless. Bullet casings litter the ground, and the wounds, the ugly holes and tears, they’ve left on the bodies are easily apparent. 

The people on the floor are dead. It is obvious. Their chests don’t rise, their eyes are wide and unblinking, their _lifeblood_ is pouring from their bodies. The four of them, two women, two men — they are dead.

Until they’re not.

Suddenly, propelled by powers or forces invisible to the naked eye, the wounds that were so hideously apparent just seconds ago... _aren’t_ — shrinking, closing, torn flesh knitting itself back together. It cannot be believed, much less explained. But it’s happening, just the same. 

Bullets are _pushed_ out of bodies, falling to the ground with little clinks. 

Chests begin to rise. Pupils, dilated in death, adjust to the light. 

The woman in the middle of the group sits up. The bullet wound in the middle of her forehead is so small now that it’s like it was never there. And then, it isn’t. Her skin is whole and unblemished, though her curly hair is saturated in blood. A moment later, she coughs and spits out a bullet, grimacing in disgust. 

Then, she looks up. Her eyes are clear and full of life. And also, of a great, growing rage. 

She picks up her gun. 

  
  


**

“Okay, we fucked up.”

“ _We_ didn’t fuck up, Niko. _You_ fucked up.”

The mustachioed man scowls, his shoulders rising defensively. “I checked him out multiple times. Thoroughly. Every time, he came back clear.”

“Well, you didn’t check him out thoroughly enough, did you?” Elena’s reply is cool. She gestures to the unassuming, slightly baby-faced man next to her. “This is why I keep saying we should leave the tech work to Kenny; he’s loads better at it.”

Niko flushes, opening his mouth to reply, but is cut off by the fourth member of the bare freight train car. She is wearing black cargo pants and a stained tank top; besides her rests an assault rifle. She holds herself with a sort of unassuming air of danger, but of very definite command. “Enough. All of you.”

Niko’s mouth shuts. Eve looks at each of them, eyes clear and direct, before looking to Niko. “What happened?”

“I...I don’t know, Eve.” He shrugs helplessly. “You met him too. He seemed on the level.”

_Konstantin, a portly, grey-bearded man with a resounding laugh, formerly of the FSB, stood as Eve and Niko approached his cafe table. “Eve. I have heard a very great deal about you. Thank you for meeting me."_

“And the mission seemed important. We all agreed on that.”

_Konstantin gestured to the files spread out on the table. “These schoolgirls have been kidnapped, and are being kept in this compound. No running water. Very small window to extract them before they are moved.”_

“ _You_ even bought his reason, Eve.”

_Eve met his eyes. “You’re a former Russian intelligence agent. One with a reputation for loyalty to yourself above all else. What do you care about some kidnapped schoolgirls in South Sudan?”_

_Konstantin didn’t reply for a long moment. When he did, there was a new note of strain in his voice. “I have a daughter...had. She...died, recently. Leukemia. It is true that I do not value much. But...I valued her. Her death changed me. Thinking about these girls, I cannot help but think of Irina.”_

Eve chuckles humorlessly. “Well, I guess we all paid the price for that, huh?”

_The compound was empty. Something was wrong, Eve knew it immediately. They followed the heat tracking to an underground room — and froze. What should have been a basic wooden structure was a state-of-the art room with metal walls and floors. Eve noticed the blinking light of a camera. Several cameras._

_And then there was no time to react as a squad of masked soldiers burst through a concealed door, and opened fire._

_Then, there was just pain._

“We’ve been had,” Elena says quietly. “We killed the men, but they were just cannon fodder. Whoever was recording already has the footage. Our secret is out.” She leans her head back against the shuddering wall of the train car. “Centuries of trying to help people, and this is what we get.”

Kenny takes her hand, and she gives him a small smile; Eve tracks the way Niko watches the gesture before looking at her, glancing quickly away when he sees her eyes are already on him.

“Do you _really_ think we’ve been helping people,” he begins, but Elena talks over him. 

“Spare me the sermon, Niko, just because you’re tortured doesn’t mean the rest of us are.” She shakes her head, disgusted. “God, forty years of not seeing you wasn’t enough.”

“I’m just asking you to _think_ about what we do—”

“No, you’re thinking about how sorry you feel for yourself, boo hoo, poor little immortal—”

“Enough!”

They all look to Kenny, who clears his throat uncomfortably. “This isn’t helping anyone. We’re all exhausted. We’ve been on the move for almost twenty-four hours. We should get some rest while we can.”

There is no arguing with this, and they settle into disgruntled, exhausted silence, before, one by one, heads droop into chests or against each other’s shoulders.

Eve watches all of them, her chest aching, fighting the heaviness of her eyelids. They are _her_ people. And no matter Niko’s fuck-up, she is ultimately responsible for them. She has to fix this. She _has_ to.

They are all she has.

With this thought ringing in her mind, she finally gives in, drifting off into a troubled sleep.

  
  


**

Life in the army isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

And considering it’s not exactly cracked up to be much, this is saying something.

Villanelle is being polite. It fucking sucks. 

But, well, it was this or rotting away in a prison cell for the next fifteen years, so when the judge gave her the choice between wearing camo or prison orange, she didn’t have to dwell on it for overly long.

She looks _terrible_ in orange. (Totally washes her out.) And she hates being bored. Prison seems boring.

So here she is. Private Astankova, freshly minted cannon fodder, less than a year out of Basic and ready to serve. Or be served. The latter seems more likely.

“Astankova, double time!”

She grits her teeth. Turns out, the only place that possibly gives more orders than prison is the army. Her problems with authority have never been so tested, especially when her commanding officer is the most unfortunate kind of moron, the kind that labors under the misapprehension that not only is he not a moron, he is in fact competent and, god help her, a _leader_. 

Diego. A leader. God, she could laugh. (And she has. To his face. Several times, actually. But while his attempts at chewing her out generally just make her laugh more, she _is_ getting sick of the pushups and the pointless menial labor, so she’ll keep it strictly internal.)

Still, the speed with which she saunters up to him is far from “double time;” it can barely be called single time. He’s clenching his jaw by the time she’s standing at attention — and she’s gotten good at layering a nuanced, subtle sort of derision even into that; she is _so_ underappreciated. “Whenever you’re ready, Private. If we’re not _troubling_ you.”

She smiles. “No trouble at all...sir.”

His face turns a lovely shade of red, but he just scowls, and gestures to the other soldier present, who Villanelle has heretofore been studiously ignoring. “As you know, we’re on patrol duty today. Consider yourself strictly under the orders of myself or PFC Kadomtseva.” He narrowed his eyes. “No repeats of last time. Am I clear?”

Villanelle flicks a glance at “PFC Kadomtseva.” Nadia flushes pink and looks away, and Villanelle sneers. Nadia is a decent lay, but is also terribly needy and lacks any semblance of backbone; the sheer thought of Villanelle being answerable to her is laughable in itself. But Diego isn’t about to budge, it is obvious, especially after what happened “last time.” (So she’d wandered a little. Jeez, they were all so dramatic. It’s not like she was going to go _AWOL_. There was nowhere to go, anyway, here in this foreign land, so far from anything familiar.)

And yet...she can’t help herself. And she is so bored. “Not sure what you could mean, Corporal?”

The usage of his rank just seems to irk him further, and he takes two quick steps to her so that they are almost nose to nose. “You know _exactly_ what I mean, Astankova. I’ve had it up to here with your insubordination.”

“Oh no,” Villanelle deadpans. Internally she bemoans, not for the first time, how much more fun this would all be with a female commanding officer. Instead she has to suffer _Diego_ , who is guilty of the twin crimes (war crimes, even) of being a man and a stick in the mud, to boot.

Speaking of, he is looking really quite mad now, and after a moment of intense staring snarls, “Don’t forget that I am in charge here, and that I can make your life a living hell. Act like it.”

This is getting more tragic by the second. Still, he looks like he’s about to burst a vein, and while that would be amusing to watch, she finds that she is itching to get out of this godforsaken base. So she decides to fast-forward this little skit, seamlessly shifting into “little woman awestruck by big strong man,” one of her specialties, usually deployed right before someone gets shanked. “I understand, Corporal. I’m sorry. _You’re_ in charge.”

He stares at her, but decides to seem satisfied with this — she took care to emphasize his rank, after all, and if he couldn’t hear the sarcasm that’s on him — and nods. “Good.” He looks between them. “Are you both ready to move out?”

They both nod — for all her small rebellions, Villanelle is hardly going to go out in the field without being properly geared up. She essentially treated Basic like a joke, but had, completely unintentionally, come first in weapons operation and maintenance; there is something comforting and natural about the feeling of a rifle in her hands, its heavy metal weight steadying. The fifty pounds of body armor and equipment are less welcome, but she can at least tolerate the camouflage more than she would’ve a jumpsuit. 

In the Humvee, the walls of the base disappearing behind them, Villanelle finally feels her shoulders relax. She knows she is safer behind those walls, behind the barriers and roadblocks and watchtowers, but the feeling of freedom — illusory and transient though it may be — being outside them gives her is vastly preferable. 

Even if her freedom has to include Diego and Nadia. She sighs, feeling herself already start to sweat despite the breeze; sitting in the turret hatch as she is, the sun beats down on her, and the back of her neck prickles uncomfortably. Cutting her hair short had been the right call — the lack of importance these people give proper hair care is a crime — but it’s been hell adjusting to the realities; she’s never used so much sunscreen in her life.

She shoots a glare at Diego, in the driver’s seat, and Nadia besides him riding shotgun. Funny how _they_ never seem to get picked to be up here. Still, there is something to be said for being away from them both. 

They drive for a time, making their way slowly down the unpaved road, Diego doing a shit job of avoiding the many potholes and grooves; Villanelle feels a headache coming on. Still, she continues to carefully observe their surroundings — she may not care for either of her companions but she certainly doesn’t want to be caught unawares out here. Her life thus far may have been mostly a series of unfortunate events, but it’s still hers and she knows she doesn’t want it to end in a desert surrounded by people she doesn’t like.

When they abruptly pull to a stop, Villanelle has never been so grateful; she’s clacked her teeth together as they drive straight into massive potholes more times than she can count. She cranes her neck and shouts down into the cab through the turret hatch. “What’s the problem?”

Diego looks up, glaring, and she rolls her eyes. “What’s the problem, _Corporal_?” 

He holds the glare for a moment before nodding at the road before them. “The road is blocked, up ahead.” 

She follows his gaze to see that, sure enough, barely visible in the distance, the road is indeed blocked. Rocks, pieces of lumber, and other pieces of assorted rusted out junk have been pushed across the way, making it impassable. 

She studies it for a second, and the terrain on either side, before calling into the cab, “Well, _that’s_ obviously an ambush.” The low rolling hills on either side are perfect vantage points for anyone laying in wait to pick off anyone stupid enough to try to clear a path. 

“When I want your opinion, Private, I’ll ask for it.” He stares out at the road. “And I’m not too sure about this... _conclusion_ you’ve reached.”

Oh for god’s sake. She is truly surrounded by idiots. “Look at the hills! This is painfully obvious to anyone who’s not a moron. This is a _trap_. We should call it in and turn around.”

He turns fully at that, whipping off his sunglasses; Nadia cringes besides him. “You know what, Private, I’m getting real sick of your shit.”

“Same here.”

He flushes all over again, letting out a choked sound before saying, “Go clear the road.” 

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Go. Clear. The road.”

“Have you totally lost it?! That’s a fool’s errand — it’s a trap!”

“This is an order, Astankova! From your commanding officer!”

“Do I look like I care? You’re sending me out to _die_!”

“I will have you court-martialed!” He’s puce now. 

“Do it! I’m not going out there! Go out yourself if you’re so desperate!”

Diego looks at her for a long moment, breathing heavily. When he talks again, his voice has quieted, a different kind of menace now present that Villanelle hasn’t heard from him previously. “Do you _want_ to go to prison, Astankova? I’ve read your file. I know exactly where you come from, what you’ve done. I can make it happen.” He meets her eyes. “Now go.”

Prison. Fuck. She has no idea if he’s bluffing or not. What she does know is that he’s a fucking idiot, not that this is news. But she can't risk it. “Fine. But I’m not going alone. Nadia and I can clear a path quicker than just me. Get us closer.”

“ _What—_ ” Nadia starts, but Diego is nodding, clearly past the point of thinking rationally. 

“Fine. Whatever.”

He drives the Humvee to just a few feet away from where the improvised road block begins; the debris, though spanning the width of the road, is only a few feet deep, and it’s actually feasible that she and Nadia can clear a path wide enough to get the Humvee through in two or three minutes at the most. 

She slides down from her perch in the turret hatch into the cab. “Nadia. Follow my lead. Keep your head down and push the blockage off the road or into the middle, whatever is easier. Don’t stop moving.”

Nadia nods mutely, and Villanelle looks at her for a moment before turning to Diego. “I hope you won’t regret this... _Corporal_.”

He doesn’t reply, staring out the windshield, though Villanelle doesn’t miss the way his shoulders tense. Good. He should be tense. He would know he’s making the wrong call, if he wasn’t such a prideful prick. Villanelle has her pride too, god knows, but it’s fine because she’s also always right.

“On my mark. Three, two, one... _now!_ ”

They both burst out of the Humvee, Nadia following Villanelle to the right side of the road. Without pause they immediately begin hauling debris off the road, trying to clear just enough space so that the Humvee can pass through, working feverishly; the sweat courses down Villanelle’s back. 

She reaches for a large rock. Just a few more obstacles like these and the path should be accessible. 

And then, it explodes, jagged pieces ricocheting off her helmet and goggles, several glancing off her cheek; blood starts coursing down her face. She immediately dives to the ground, taking cover behind what appears to be an ancient washing machine as bullets begin to rain down on them; she doesn’t need to look up to know that shooters have appeared, and from the bullets’ impact, mostly from the right side. Pure adrenalin courses through her veins, along with pure rage. _Fuck_ Diego, that absolute ignoramus. If she dies here, in this dusty road surrounded by junk, she’s going to haunt his sorry ass forever. 

She manages to get her rifle in her hands, disengaging the safety and returning fire over the washing machine; the assault pauses for a second as the shooters take cover.

Nadia screams from somewhere besides her, and Villanelle looks up to see her cowering in a crouch, in imperfect cover behind some stacked lumber. She seems to have forgotten about her gun altogether. “Kadomtseva! Get it together!”

Nadia keeps cowering, and Villanelle curses. “ _Nadia_!”

Nadia looks up a bit at this, finally. 

“On my mark! We run back to the Humvee!”

Nadia nods faintly. 

“Three, two—”

The lumber pile Nadia is crouched behind erupts in bullets, splinters flying everywhere, and she screams all over again. Villanelle lets out another stream of curses, jumping up into a crouched run to her, pulling her up and pushing her towards the Humvee, returning fire wildly as they run. It’s only five or six feet away, they can _make it—_

Nadia trips over a rock, and falls to the dusty road. Villanelle, right behind her, promptly trips over her and falls on top of her. 

Pain. Pain as bullets rip into her. Impact like anvils on her chest as bullets punch into the Kevlar, into her unarmored arms. 

She can distantly hear Nadia screaming. For the love of god, does this worthless woman do anything _but_ scream?

Her musings are cut short as a lucky shot finds its way into the small sliver of forehead left exposed by her helmet. 

Villanelle dies. 

  
  


**

Eve shudders awake with a gasp. 

_A dusty road. Rocks and junk. Heat. And pain. So much pain._

Around her, the others are doing the same. She doesn’t need to ask. She already knows. 

“Fuck,” Elena mutters, massaging her forehead. Next to her, Kenny is already pulling out a notebook, scribbling furiously. “Okay, um, I saw, I saw a road, an unpaved road. There was another woman, screaming.”

Kenny nods, writing. “I saw a glimpse of dogtags. Military. And I think I heard someone shouting from a distance, not English — Pashto, I think, or Dari.”

Across from them, Niko is staring at the ground, eyes wide and unseeing. “They were using rifles of some sort, I couldn’t tell—”

“M4s. They were M4s.”

They all look to Eve. She returns their looks evenly. “Standard issue for the US Army. She’s a soldier. Stationed in Afghanistan.” A pause. “Or was.”

“God…” Niko whispers. “Why now? A new one, after so many centuries...why _now_?” He shudders. “I felt her die.”

Elena and Kenny trade glances before looking to Eve. Eve doesn’t bother answering the question. “We have to get to her. The Army will use her, lock her away someplace, and that’ll be that.”

They nod, though Niko takes a second. “So what should we do?”

Eve snorts. “There’s no ‘we.’ I’m going to Afghanistan, obviously. And I’m going to get her.”

  
  


**

_A train car, shuddering and trembling with the train’s motions. Four people, crouched inside. An Asian woman, with curly black hair—_

Villanelle wakes up. 

For a moment, she thinks she has gone blind: all she can see is gauzy olive. Then she realizes a sheet is pulled over her head, and tugs it away. 

She stares up at the drab canvas of the tent above her. Where is she? What is happening?

Slowly, memory begins to return. The patrol. Diego. Nadia. The roadblock. The _ambush_.

The bullets, ripping into her. The pain.

And yet, here she is. She sits up abruptly, raises a hand to her forehead. There is a bandage there. She probes it, and— no pain. Nothing. She feels _nothing_. 

She rips off the bandage, and touches the bare skin with trembling fingers. Under the dried blood, already flaking off...is whole, unmarred skin. 

She drops her hand, her breath beginning to pick up. 

But she died. She can remember her blood leaving her in great gushes. Losing sensation. Her head getting light. Nadia trapped under her, screaming. 

And then the final bullet, through her skull.

Yes, she died. Didn’t she?

She feels something stuck in her throat, abruptly, and coughs into her hand. Something comes free and lands in her palm.

Suddenly afraid, she pulls her hand back, and opens it slowly.

Villanelle stares at the bullet in her hand, and tries not to freak the fuck out.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> may we all be saved from incompetent overconfident men. poor V.
> 
> and yes, before you ask i will be using epigraphs throughout this fic bc i have precious few outlets for my pretentiousness these days, and must express it somewhere.
> 
> thanks for reading! i think this is gonna be a fun one. we'll see how my outline pans out this time.
> 
> @lightfighterfic twitter


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. She absolutely, incontrovertibly, died. Kicked the bucket. Shuffled off the mortal coil. Bought the farm. Gave up the ghost. Et cetera. 
> 
> Except she very clearly didn’t, because here she is. 

There is a new immortal. 

After so many centuries of just the four of them, there is another.

The last thing Eve wanted to do was encourage Niko’s burgeoning freakout in the train, but she can admit, at least now and strictly to herself, that she shares some of his concerns. 

After so long, why _now_ ? The arrival of another one of their number never occurs in a vacuum; something always, _always_ presages it. 

Usually something not that great. 

Eve tries not to think about the footage, somewhere out there, that releases their secret, so jealously guarded for so long, out into the world, like some sort of fucked up Pandora’s box — and, no doubt, to the highest bidder. 

The pilot yells, over the dull roar of the somewhat antique engines and shuddering of the fuselage, that they are due to land soon, and Eve neatly puts thoughts of the video aside to focus on the task at hand; one’s ability to compartmentalize grows fairly honed after a few countless centuries. 

She has a new immortal to extract, before the girl’s erstwhile employers cotton on to her miraculous recovery and whisk her off to some black site for poking and prodding, never to emerge again. 

Not that said whisking would stop Eve and her team, of course. But she does so hate making things more complicated than they need to be, and infiltrating an army base is already hassle enough.

  
  


**

Villanelle is freaking out. 

Oh, externally she is as cool, collected, and generally indifferent as she ever is, but internally? Whole ‘nother story. 

Because she died. She fucking _died_ — there’s no way to sugarcoat it or try to say it wasn’t like that; she got her hands on the medical report, if the bandages wrapped around what seems like her entire body weren’t indication enough, and yeah. She got shot, like, a bajillion times. Irreparable organ damage, internal (and external) bleeding, catastrophic blood loss, and oh yeah, she got shot in the _head_ with a high-caliber bullet. Her head, where her brain is. 

So, yeah. She absolutely, incontrovertibly, died. Kicked the bucket. Shuffled off the mortal coil. Bought the farm. Gave up the ghost. Et cetera. 

Except she very clearly _didn’t_ , because here she is. 

Villanelle is not one for religion. Like, at all. And she’s pretty sure she’s not Jesus. But if she _is_ , and this is, like, the second coming, the world is really, really, fucked. She simply does not have the patience or desire to be the savior of mankind, or turn the other cheek, or not covet her neighbor’s wife, or whatever else is expected of a messiah. Frankly, she doesn’t even like mankind all that much.

...Unless she did die, and this is hell. Villanelle is under no illusions: if there _is_ a binary afterlife, with your assignment based on some sort of (completely fair and not at all bullshit) tallying up of your sins and good deeds, and all their net effect, then heaven is probably not going to be her lot. Her twenty-five years may not be that numerous, but they’ve certainly been eventful. 

So. Hell? It _is_ pretty hot here, and there would be some divine justice (and humor) in her hell just waking up and being in the army again. These goddamned camo fatigues she’s once more in would certainly suggest she’s being punished. 

But, no. She does not think that that is the case. If it were hell, nothing would have changed. Diego would still be a pain in her ass and riding the power high brought on only by middle-management. The other infantry grunts would still be either fearful or scornful of her. Nadia would still be hot and cold, all over her in private but flushing at the barest eye contact in public. 

Now, everyone is just scared of her. Or avoiding her. Or both. 

Nadia and Diego came into the tent where she is officially “recovering,” not too long after she had woken up and scared the medics half to death with the news that she was in fact, _not_ , and the difference was immediately apparent; neither could look her in the eye, and Diego had paled under his tan when he saw the rather obvious lack of gruesome injuries on her person. Nadia said nothing at all, her bruises and cuts — though nary a bullet wound, protected by Villanelle as she’d been — saying enough. She just stared at Villanelle, eyes wide, looking disturbed, even as Diego muttered his best wishes and relief at her recovery, silent questions screaming from the both of them to which she had, and still has, no answers to give.

(Though she _did_ take some pleasure in responding with a knowing smirk, enjoying the way they both flinched. She may in fact not know shit, but she’s never let that ruin a good time.)

She did have the presence of mind, as well, to replace the bandage around her forehead — there is just no explanation for the complete lack of even the slightest scratch there — but even with it she knows she looks much, much better than she has any right to.

And they knew it, too. Everyone knows it. 

She should be dead. The medics tried to act chipper, after their initial shock, but Villanelle knows when people are lying. They were mystified, and soon after that, terrified. And then, after their initial checkover confirmed that yep, she’s alive, with vitals and everything, the most senior of them disappeared for a bit, only to return with an _officer_ , a major, so far above her she’s only seen him at a distance on the occasions he’s delivered morale speeches to the company. 

He inspected her. Oh, he shook her hand and asked after her injuries and thanked her for her service and for putting her body on the line in the service of the American people, saying everything he was supposed to say with a broad smile, but Villanelle had seen the gears turning in his eyes, in the way they paused on her spotless bandages, in the false good humor of his grin. 

And then he said that she’s going to be airlifted to the Army hospital in Germany, to Landstuhl, to run some “tests” that they can’t do here and make sure she’s, despite her apparently miraculous recovery, doing well. That she is healthy. 

And he told her to stay in the tent. For her _health_. The smile had stayed. 

But there is a guard posted outside. Oh, he is innocuous, chatting and laughing with passerby, but he is there all the same. And he is not leaving. 

The transport to Landstuhl is in half an hour. And where before, Villanelle would’ve jumped at the chance to get out of here, to go to Germany and hopefully a real bed and better food, she now finds herself on edge. 

Tests. They want to do tests. 

Villanelle isn’t sure she wants them to have the answers.

She isn’t sure she wants them, either.

  
  


**

“...At the dawn of this millennium, there was so much hope for scientific breakthrough on so many of the world’s greatest problems, on the myriad illnesses and maladies that befall humans. And yet, there has been so little progress. Dementia. Autoimmune disorders. Cancer. They all still exist, bringing pain to so many.” The man on the stage pauses, glancing to where Konstantin stands at the back of the hall. 

“Pharaday wants to change that. Our cutting-edge, proprietary hormone research, led by Dr. Raymond Algaron,” he gestures to a ruddy, rather unremarkable man in a lab coat standing off to the side, “promises to one day cease cognitive decline. We can stop dementia in its tracks.” He pauses, this time for applause from the members of the press gathered there. 

“Our work will add years of life to the collective world population. But it’s also _expensive_. We need investors to support our mission. Investment drives my enthusiasm to take risks, risks that will support countless lives…”

Konstantin continues to watch as the man talks on, working the crowd. His face is blank. 

His face is still blank, later, in an SUV, as he sits across from the man and watches him finish viewing the footage of the immortals coming back to life and proceeding to massacre the soldiers sent in to kill them.

Aaron Peel holds the tablet in both hands, watching as the immortals lay waste to the men. He seems unmoved by the bloodshed. “Who’s this?”

Konstantin leans to see who he’s talking about. “Eve. Their leader.”

“She just took that fellow’s arm off with an axe.”

Konstantin doesn’t quite know what to say to this, and so settles for, “Yes.”

Peel continues to stare down at the table, even after the footage cuts off. When he raises his head, Konstantin fights the urge to blink; his poker face is nothing to the complete lack of... _anything_ in Peel’s gaze, staring back at him through rounded glasses. “So, I have delivered. They are real.” 

Peel looks at him a moment longer before nodding once. “So they are.” He glances at the doctor, Raymond — Konstantin does not like him anymore than he does Peel. “But where’s the hard proof? Blood, tissue, bone, DNA?”

Konstantin clears his throat. Here comes the uncomfortable part. “There was an...unanticipated amount of carnage at the site. Collecting uncontaminated samples proved impossible.”

“You promised me hard proof.” Peel’s gaze does not falter.

“But the footage—”

“—The _footage_ , alone, is a two million dollar snuff film. Without them, we have nothing to go on. Raymond cannot extract the _how_ from...a video.”

Konstantin flicks a glance to Raymond, who smiles laconically, seemingly unbothered by the power play unfolding before him. “I can get you…one. Maybe.”

“All.”

“ _All_ — these are extraordinary individuals. Extremely resistant.” 

Peel shrugs. “Make a plan with my security team. Make it happen.” He meets Konstantin’s gaze, and this time, Konstantin cannot restrain the shiver at the indifference there. “And get it done before my competitors catch wind of this.”

Konstantin nods mutely, and Peel smiles faintly before directing his attention out the window. Conversation over.

Konstantin sits back, and tries to ignore the unease spreading in his chest. The time for doubt has passed.

  
  


**

Afghanistan, wow. Eve hasn’t been here in at least a decade. Oh, she spent her fair share of time here in the early aughts, when the Americans first invaded, and before that in the ‘80s when the Soviets were here, and before _that_ off and on throughout the 1800s, as the Mughals, Sikhs, and British all came through, but it’s been a couple of years, now. 

That’s not to say it’s felt like a long time; what is a decade but a brief breather in the grand scheme of things, after all?

What is it compared to a new immortal, ignorant of her reality and the terrible danger she’s in?

Nothing at all. 

Eve adjusts her US Army fatigues, the tabs on the collar identifying her as a captain, and briefly misses the days of plate armor as she continues onward to the base. Sure, it was heavy, but it lent a certain...gravitas to its wearer that this modern day stuff just can’t hold a candle to. 

It’s a pity, really. Things just aren’t as cool as they used to be. There’s no more flair.

But, needs must. And Kevlar _is_ rather nice.

She glances at her watch. She’s almost there. 

  
  


**

“Astankova. Transport’s here. Time to go.”

Villanelle looks at the two military police waiting at the tent entrance; they look back, expressions blank. Both wear sidearms holstered at their waists, and though their hands are by their sides, nothing to suggest anything but fellow soldiers escorting their (allegedly) wounded ally to a medical transport, she is wary. 

Wary is an understatement, actually. More like every instinct she’s ever honed in her twenty-five ill-spent years is screaming at her to not only _not_ go with them, but to run. Run _fast_ , in any direction so long as it is away. 

But there is nowhere for her to go, no way for her to defy them. The three of them, here in this stifling tent, are just one tiny part of a much, much larger machine. For all her little uprisings, pushing the envelope with Diego, she is painfully aware that, in the grand scheme of things and before the might of the Army as a whole, she has few options. Or put more succinctly: the only option, outside of a court-martial, is to obey. 

So she swallows, throat dry, and nods. “Right.”

They leave the tent, and she blinks back the tears that spring to her eyes against the harsh sun. She hates everything about this base, from the shitty food to the stifling, oppressive sense of always being watched, but suddenly, she does not want to leave. At least here, there are no unknown quantities. Devil you know, and all that. 

They walk through the rows of prefab buildings and tents, murmurs and stares following them as they go. Villanelle is no stranger to being the subject of discussion, and is happy to be notorious. Right now, unfortunately, it’s just another reminder of what’s happening to her.

“So...Landstuhl. What is going to happen there? I am fine,” she tries. “Look at me. I’m _great_.”

Neither MP replies for a moment; she sees them glance at each other. Finally, the one to her right says, “More testing, like the major said.”

“But—”

“No more questions, Private. We’ll be wheels up in a few.”

They turn into another tent-lined lane, this one narrower and free of the clusters of watching soldiers. Villanelle feels the tension gathering between her shoulders. The airstrip isn’t far, now.

It is as they’re walking past the last few tents that the MP to her left stumbles. Villanelle steps away instinctively, and then watches, agog, as the woman who had stepped out from a tent finishes driving an elbow into his face, dropping him, before seizing the other MP by the back of her neck and driving her face into a metal support column. She too falls, motionless. 

Villanelle stares, feeling her mouth drop. Two things: one, the woman is a captain, or at least that’s what her uniform insignia says, and two — much more important — _wow_ , okay, that was hot as fuck.

Naturally, she voices this thought. “Wow.”

The woman looks at her, pushing her curly hair out of her face (wow). She isn’t even breathing hard. (Wow!) “That was...perfect. Who are you?”

The woman pauses, looking briefly taken aback, before her face is a mask again. “Eve.”

And then the woman is pulling a heretofore unnoticed pistol from the small of her back. Without hesitating, she slams it down on Villanelle’s temple. 

Eve looks at the girl, unconscious on the ground, and stuffs the pistol back in her waistband. “Just Eve.”

  
  


**

Villanelle wakes up to motion. Uncomfortable motion. Her head knocks against a hard surface, in time with the rumbling below her, and it is this familiar sensation that clues her in to where she must be: a Humvee. Of course. No other mode of transportation will ever be _this_ uncomfortable. 

She sits up, sees the back of... _Eve’s_ head as the other woman drives, one arm casually resting in the open window frame. She smiles. “Hi, Eve.”

Eve barely turns her head, flicking a glance at her. “You’re awake.”

“I am.” Villanelle knows she should be scared, or alert, or something similar, but really, she is just intrigued. And rather flattered. “No one’s ever staged a jailbreak for me. It’s nice.”

Eve shoots her another glance, but doesn’t reply. 

Villanelle is undeterred. “So...aside from your wonderfully brief name, I still don’t actually know who you are. Or what you want.” She eyes Eve’s fatigues. “I’m going to guess you’re not actually in the Army.”

Still no reply, but that is fine, Villanelle is very good at entertaining herself and Eve is sufficiently intriguing even when she’s not saying anything. “Do you know what is happening to me?”

Eve’s shoulders tense here, very slightly. A-ha! Villanelle smiles. “You know, I thought I might be Jesus.”

Eve snorts at that, finally, turning her head again. “I can tell you that you’re not Jesus.”

“So you _do_ know what I am.” Villanelle leans forward, thrumming with excitement and anticipation. She’s always known she’s special, different; this turn of events serves as delightful confirmation. And all the better if Eve is, too. “Are you...like me?”

This time, Eve definitely stiffens. Her lack of reply is slightly annoying, now; Villanelle wants answers, and Eve really ought to know that it is impolite to kidnap someone and then not even say why. “Eve, I know you can hear me.”

Still nothing, and Villanelle rolls her eyes. Well, if this is how Eve wants to play it...Villanelle knows how to get a reaction, and is perfectly happy to do what needs doing to get it. She may not know who Eve is or what she wants, but better to establish that Villanelle doesn’t do well with being ignored right from the start, and make an impression of her own choosing in the process.

With that, she raises her booted foot and slams it down on the door release, kicking the stubborn lever several times until it gives away and the back door springs open, letting her roll out. This proves to be a rather painful experience; the Humvee was going fairly fast, and she bounces off the dirt road a few times, before rolling to a stop. 

Still, she has a point to prove, and so pushes to her feet, ignoring her new collection of bruises, and starts running away in the direction from which they’ve come. She has absolutely no desire to go back to the base, of course, and really doesn’t even intend to get that far, but it’s the _principle_ of the thing. She will not be ignored!

Also, she sort of just wants to see what Eve will do. She’s already proven capable of infiltrating a heavily guarded Army base, incapacitating two military police, and kidnapping someone, after all. 

Villanelle gets her answer not a minute later, lips curving up as she hears the Humvee roll to a stop.

Her smile abruptly disappears as her knee explodes, both in pain and somewhat literally. She falls to the ground, clutching her knee in agony, blood quickly soaking her pants and running over her hands. 

Eve shot her! She fucking _shot_ her!

Through the haze of pain she dimly registers approaching footsteps against the gravel, and manages to look up to see Eve, holding her pistol by her side. “You...you shot me!”

Eve looks back evenly, preternaturally calm. “I did.”

Eve’s weird calm and straightforward acknowledgement disarm Villanelle, and she stammers for a moment before managing, “It...it hurts!”

Eve raises a brow. “Does it? Are you sure?”

Villanelle opens her mouth to say that yeah, she’s pretty _fucking_ sure being shot in the kneecap hurts, but stops abruptly. It did hurt, hurt like a bitch in fact, immediately on impact and for a few seconds after. But, even as she sits there, holding the wound...the pain is fading. 

The pain is _fading!_

She sits up, pulling her pant leg up over her ruined knee to see...the wound closing. Healing. _Disappearing_. 

Within seconds, it’s like it was never there at all. 

As she sits there, she realizes that all her pains are fading; from her knee, but also the assortment of scratches and bruises she definitely just picked up from her escape. Even her head, no doubt wounded when Eve knocked her out, feels totally fine.

“Does that answer any of your questions?”

She looks up at Eve; the woman looks slightly amused, now, and Villanelle feels a confusing surge of irritation — Eve _shot_ her — and attraction at the sight. “Honestly? Not really. Nothing I didn’t already know.” 

“I’ll bet.” Eve stuffs the pistol back into her waistband. “Anyway. Running is really stupid, as I’m sure you know. I get that you have questions, but for now, we just need to get out of here. So get back in the truck, please.”

And with that, she turns and begins walking back to the Humvee. Villanelle watches this, and her irritation turns abruptly into very real anger. Eve, whoever she is, whatever she knows, does _not_ get to treat her like this. 

Acting on instinct and that thought alone, she springs to her feet and pulls her combat knife from its sheath hidden inside her combat jacket, lunging at Eve. 

Eve turns back just in time for Villanelle to sink it into her shoulder, letting out a grunt of pain as it bites deep. They stand there for a moment, a twisted reflection of intimacy, barely inches apart with Villanelle’s hand wrapped around the knife and her other around Eve’s shoulder. Villanelle flicks her eyes up from where the knife is embedded to meet Eve’s gaze, something flashing there when they do.

And then Eve steps back, looking...annoyed. Yes, annoyed, as if this was a mild irritation at best. She yanks the knife out, either uncaring or unaware of the blood coating her hand. “Don’t do that again.”

Villanelle stares as the wound closes, and Eve rolls her eyes. “ _That_ should answer your last question.”

“You _are_ like me.” This comes out a bit breathily.

“In this regard, anyway.”

Villanelle keeps staring, even after Eve gives her a last searching look before turning back to the Humvee. She feels hot, and not just because of the sun beating down on her. Eve and her are...the same. Eve is like _her_ , and that means Eve is special. 

Eve shot her. _She_ stabbed _Eve_. 

There’s a wonderful symmetry to it all, a feeling of rightness. It’s something she hasn’t felt before.

Villanelle smiles. 

She wants to feel it again. She cleans the knife on her pants before resheathing it, and starts to follow Eve.  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they've met! they've wounded each other, but in inverse! huzzah!
> 
> thanks for reading.
> 
> @lightfighterfic on bird app


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Villanelle waits, but when no further information seems incoming quirks an eyebrow. “Okay, and? What is happening to me? Why is it happening?”
> 
> At that, Eve can only let out a long sigh. As if she hasn’t spent literal centuries dwelling on just that. “I wish I knew.”
> 
> This, finally, seems to aggravate Villanelle, and she leans in, elbows on her knees. “You said you had answers, Eve.”
> 
> “Didn’t say you’d like them.”

“ _This_ is our ride?”

“Is there a problem?”

Villanelle looks at the ancient, dubiously air-safe cargo plane in front of them in dismay. It looks like its glory days were at least three wars or maps of Europe ago. “Eve, you are immortal. You should be rich. Insanely, unbelievably rich. Where’s the private jet? The Gulfstream?”

Eve snorts. “We’re trying to get out of here discreetly…” She pauses. “Oksana? That’s your name, right? That’s what the army records say.”

“I prefer Villanelle, actually.”

“Villanelle,” Eve repeats, and Villanelle finds that she rather likes the sound of her name in Eve’s voice, even if Eve sounds a bit nonplussed. “Uh, okay then. Why not. Anyway, a Gulfstream is about the opposite of discreet. We’re trying to fly under the radar here, literally. You’re officially AWOL, after all.” 

Villanelle grimaces, but makes no further complaint; a ride out of this hellhole is a ride out, even if she’s not fully convinced it’ll get off the ground. 

Eve watches her head up the ramp into the plane, not entirely sure of what to make of this erstwhile soldier and baby immortal, who seems far too calm about everything happening to and around her. Her phone buzzing in her pocket distracts her from these thoughts, and she pulls it out to see it’s Niko.

“Hi. You’re okay?”

Eve bites back an impatient sigh. She’s the oldest among them, but only Niko can make his concern feel weirdly and annoyingly paternalistic. “I’m fine. I’ve got her.”

“Good. That’s good.” He pauses, then says, sounding hesitant, “She’s...freaking out I imagine?”

“Uh…” Eve looks into the plane to see Villanelle sprawled out on top of some storage trunks, eyes closed and looking entirely at ease and not at all like she’s on the run or reckoning with huge, existential life changes. “She seems to be doing okay, actually.”

“...I see. And you know the plan from here—”

“—Niko. You don’t need to monitor me, alright? I am fully capable of handling myself and whatever comes along.”

“I’m just _concerned_ for you, Eve—”

“I get that, but we’re just teammates now. On a team that _I_ lead. Nothing more. And that’s been the case for decades. The extra concern isn’t necessary.”

“...Right.” He sounds petulant, or hurt, or otherwise wounded in some way but Eve is in no mood to entertain it. Their brief...fling (as she’d call it), or relationship (as he’d call it) ended ages ago, but it’s painfully obvious to everyone that he’s never really gotten over it, and, whenever the team gets back together, takes it upon himself to endlessly cluck over her like some sort of very annoying mother hen. 

“Look, just keep looking for Konstantin. We need an address. And fast. He’ll know we’re after him.”

“Right.”

“See you soon.” She ends the call without waiting for a reply. Goddamn Niko. She doesn’t hate him or anything — still cares for him as a member of her team and one of her people — but damn if he doesn’t get on her nerves. Especially after this fuckup of massive proportions, a complication she _really_ didn’t need right now. 

Speaking of complications. She looks back into the plane, where Villanelle continues to rest (or at least feign it). The girl is...odd. Eve doesn’t know what she expected, but it wasn’t this. Wasn’t her. 

And yet, here she is. The newest immortal, the first in centuries.

It must all mean something, but Eve doesn’t have the faintest idea what.

She tries to swallow down her rising disquiet, and heads for the ramp, and Villanelle.

  
  


**

It is only after they’ve taken off and are fully underway that Villanelle “wakes up,” though she clearly was faking the entire time; sleeping through the insane cacophony the old plane generated as it took flight is frankly impossible. Still, Eve has to give her credit for committing to the bit. 

She takes her time sitting up and getting comfortable, as comfortable as one can be on hard plastic storage trunks, anyway. Villanelle does a good job at looking at ease, but Eve can see the tension just under the surface; she’s had...a very long time to learn how to read people and find even the smallest tells. Everyone has them, even if they think they don’t. You just have to know how to look.

And Villanelle is tense. Or perhaps that is the wrong word; she is not anxious, not really. No, under the lazy confidence, she’s...tightly coiled, ready to strike at a moment’s notice should it become necessary. 

Good. That’ll serve her well. 

Less charming is the slightly unnerving way she looks at Eve, an open inspection that Eve finds rather grating. Perhaps the woman’s lack of terror is convenient, or at least makes Eve’s life a bit easier, but Eve isn’t sure she’s exactly thrilled with being...well, shamelessly checked out, either.

“So. We have gotten out. Are we far enough yet for you to tell me what exactly is going on?”

Eve stares at her. Villanelle smiles, unbothered, and adds, “Or...anything at all, really.”

Eve doesn’t immediately reply. Villanelle’s smile is broad and devoid of all sincerity, and Eve wonders again just who exactly the universe has picked to grant its inexplicable powers of rebirth. 

When Villanelle lifts her eyebrows expectantly, arms crossed before, Eve clears her throat, annoyed at being off guard again, in front of a _child_. Really, she can’t be past her mid-twenties. “How old are you?”

If Villanelle is surprised by this question, she doesn’t show it. “Twenty-five.”

Twenty-five. God. A child indeed. Eve can no longer remember how old she was when she first died and came back to life, but surely it wasn’t twenty-five. So, so young. And now thrust into a world more complex than she’s likely ever known, or guessed, it could be. “Okay. Well. As you’ve gathered by now, you are…”

“Immortal,” Villanelle finishes, that damn smile still on her face. “Yes. Or close enough to it. And you are, too.”

Eve isn’t sure, all of a sudden, that she necessarily wants to be grouped in with Villanelle, but it’s also the truth, so she inclines her head. “Yup.”

Villanelle waits, but when no further information seems incoming quirks an eyebrow. “Okay, and? What is happening to me? _Why_ is it happening?”

At that, Eve can only let out a long sigh. As if she hasn’t spent literal centuries dwelling on just that. “I wish I knew.”

This, finally, seems to aggravate Villanelle, and she leans in, elbows on her knees. “You said you had answers, Eve.”

“Didn’t say you’d like them.” But it is true that she can say more, so she blows out a breath before adding, “Look, I don’t have fancy explanations for you. I can’t explain what’s happening to you, beyond what you’ve seen for yourself, other than that it _is_ happening, and there’s no stopping it. It’s the same for the others—”

“Wait. The others?” Villanelle does _not_ seem to like this new bit of information. “There are more? Of us?”

“Yes. There are three more of...us.”

Villanelle looks at her for a long moment, expression blank. “So it is not just you and me.”

Eve tries not to react at the slight emphasis she put on that last part. “Well. No.”

Villanelle’s eyes flicker with something before going neutral again. “Okay.” She shifts again, shrugging elegantly. “So tell me, Eve. You clearly kidnapped me for a reason, beyond my abilities. What exactly is it you want from me?”

The irritation that has started building in Eve, from the careless apathy of the kid’s body language to her increasingly grating replies, gains another level. Still, she remains outwardly calm; like hell is she going to let the wet-behind-the-ears baby immortal before her wind her up. “The others and I, the four of us. We are...soldiers, of a sort. A task force, I guess you could say.”

Villanelle’s gaze sharpens, but she just says, “Okay, and?”

“And...you’re going to join us.”

Villanelle surprises her, then. She lets out a light chuckle, looking genuinely amused. “Join you! Oh, Eve.” She leans back in, eyes suddenly intent and not amused at all. “You just so kindly broke me out of an army, Eve. Why would I want to join another?”

Eve bites down her first, hasty response with an effort, gathering herself. “Look, I get it. This is a lot to take in at once. You had a life, must have people you love, and the army—”

“There is no one. And the army can go fuck itself.” Villanelle spreads her hands. “No, I am quite available. I just don’t really feel compelled to help you all in your little mission. I’d rather do...nothing, as it happens.”

“Don’t you feel a purpose? Some need to help, to give back with the abilities you now have?”

Villanelle tilts her head, tapping her chin in mock thought before dropping the act and smiling, sharklike. “No.”

Eve’s jaw sets. So it’s going to be like that. “You’ll find that I’m not really asking.”

Villanelle seems unbothered by this not terribly subtle threat. “Really? You’re going to force me to join, is that it? You and your army of...three?”

“We’re more than enough to do whatever needs doing.” And her irritation has turned fully into anger now, dammit, and worse is audible in her voice. Eve doesn’t know why this girl is so adept at pissing her off with such little effort — they barely even know each other — but it doesn’t bode well. 

“Whatever needs doing? Tell me, what exactly _is_ it that you think needs doing?”

“Whatever we think is best.” Eve is aware of how steely her tone has grown, but honestly doesn’t care to attempt modulating it. 

Villanelle’s eyebrows raise at this pronouncement. “Wow. You must be very important, Eve.” The sarcasm is rather hard to miss.

“And _you’re_ a child.” (There goes the last of Eve’s resolve to be the neutral one here.)

Villanelle just laughs, relaxing against the steel wall of the plane. “Eve, you are quite fun when you are mad, and I like talking to you, but I do not think you are as scary as you are trying to suggest. Army, really? I doubt you could even take me.”

Eve stares at her for a long moment. “Get up.”

“What?”

“I said, get up.”

Finally, _finally_ , a flash of surprise flickers through the girl’s face. “You want to fight now, in this plane?”

I want to kick your ass in this plane, and then throw you out without a parachute, Eve doesn’t say. She just stands, idly rolling her head from side to side.

Villanelle laughs, a hint of unease audible. “Eve, I don’t—”

“Scared?”

Villanelle stops, her jaw setting, and rises slowly to her feet, eyes locked on Eve. For the first time, she looks uncertain, and Eve relishes it. “Well?”

When Eve just looks at her, she spreads her hands wide. “Eve, if this meant to be some sort of lesson, I’m not really—”

Eve’s fist connecting with her nose cuts off the rest of whatever probably super annoying thing she was going to say, and the second blow, this time to her left kidney, has her doubling over, one hand holding her midsection, the other, her nose. She lets out a muffled groan, blood seeping between her fingers; Eve watches with some satisfaction. 

When she looks up, real anger is finally visible in her eyes, and she drops her hand with a growl, even as her very broken nose begins to knit itself back together. 

Then, she rushes Eve, ramming her shoulder into Eve’s stomach and pinning her to the wall. 

Things devolve from there.

(Looking back, Eve will grudgingly admit that that pin was rather well done, but not nearly as neat as the headbutt Eve didn’t hesitate to respond with, Villanelle falling to the ground, Eve right behind to straddle, and then promptly begin pummeling, her; Villanelle is only too happy to remind her at this point that Eve definitely didn’t see the way Villanelle managed to flip them coming, either.)

This continues for some minutes, Villanelle getting a tad sloppy with frustration as, despite her best efforts, her blows never quite manage to make contact with Eve the way she wants; Eve always regains the upper hand just when Villanelle thinks she has her. 

Finally, Eve decides the charade has drawn to a close, and, instead of dodging the latest punch Villanelle is throwing at her, blood now smeared across her face and dribbling from her split lip, catches her arm, wrenching it painfully behind Villanelle’s back and driving her into the wall. Villanelle lets out a grunt as her face is pressed, none too gently, against the steel.

“Have I made my point?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” comes the slightly muffled reply. “I could do this all—”

Eve pulls her arm even more taut, and the rest of her reply is lost in a pained hiss. “Yes, fine. You seem tired, so…”

Eve rolls her eyes, but releases her and steps back, Villanelle continuing to face the wall. Eve watches as her shoulders rise and fall with exertion... 

...And is more than ready for her when Villanelle suddenly whips around, that damn combat knife in her hand, _again_. No more shoulder stabbings, thank you; Eve catches her wrist, twisting it until Villanelle drops the knife, in the same instant driving her to the ground with a blow to the back of her knees.

She twists Villanelle’s arm behind her back for the second time in as many minutes, a knee keeping the woman pinned to the floor. They stay in that position for a long moment in a frozen tableau, broken when Eve shakes her head. “So, are you looking for something, is that why you keep coming down here, or…?” 

Villanelle is still for a second. Then, the tension leaves her, and she laughs, turning her face. “I may be down, but I am never out, Eve.”

Eve gives a dry chuckle. “Clearly. But the knife, again? Really?”

Villanelle is unrepentant. “It was worth a try.”

Eve has to give this to her. “Well, you can fight. I’ll say that much.”

“And you...are better than I anticipated.”

“I wonder what gives you that impression?”

Villanelle just grunts from her place on the floor, under Eve’s knee. 

“Okay,” Eve says. “Have I made my point _now?_ I’d really like to take a nap.”

“...Fine.”

“Don’t make me throw you out the airlock. Would rather not test how far immortality goes, when one is...splattered.”

“You’re so bossy, Eve. I like it. But I am done, okay.”

“...So if I stand up, you’re not going to go at me with the knife that you’re currently trying to kick closer to yourself, right?”

Villanelle’s leg stops, and she, far from looking guilty, just looks petulant at being called out in such a fashion. “I guess not.”

Eve snorts, getting off her and standing (this time not hesitating to scoop up the knife lest Villanelle gets any ideas, for the fourth time). 

Oddly, she finds, now that she’s been able to sock Villanelle a few times in the face (multiple attempted stabbings notwithstanding), she is feeling rather more charitable towards her. 

Villanelle takes her time standing, wincing several times as she does; the healing is a bit slower the first few times, but considering the rate at which she’s racking up injuries, Eve expects that won’t last much longer.

Once Villanelle has resituated herself on top of the storage trunk, and wiped away the worst of the drying blood on her face, she begins to study Eve. Not that she wasn’t staring at her before — she _definitely_ was — but there is a new...intensity in her gaze. Eve tries not to blink as Villanelle’s stare flickers over her, top to bottom. 

Finally, a slow smile spreads across her face, and she sits back, crossing her arms. “Okay, Eve.”

“Okay?”

“Take me to your team. Still not interested in joining, of course, but I’d like to meet my...counterparts. The rest of us.”

Eve returns her stare. She’s still annoying, and far too smug for Eve’s comfort, but...she’ll take it.

(Better than knocking her out and dragging her unconscious ass for a second time, anyway.)

  
  


**

“ _This_ is where you live?”

Villanelle looks up at the old church in distaste. The place looks long abandoned and in disrepair; the cemetery they stand in is far overgrown and practically gone back to nature, crumbling tombstones barely visible here and there through the tall grass. 

“We don’t really live anywhere.” Eve shrugs, running a hand through her hair. “I don’t, anyway. This is just one of many hideouts. It’s remote, out of the way. That’s all that matters.”

“Eve…” Villanelle shakes her head, looking pained. “Where is the mansion? Or the underground state of the art base? The robot butler?!”

“Sorry to disappoint.” 

Villanelle heaves a sigh. “Where in France even are we?”

“A couple hours outside Paris.” Eve hoists her pack higher onto her shoulders, unbothered. “C’mon.”

They enter the church through a small side door, Eve withdrawing a comically large key to undo the lock, to Villanelle’s amusement and dismay. (Again, where is the retina scan? The voice confirmation? For the love of god, not even a keypad?!)

They go through a few dim passages, this part of the complex clearly updated for modern living, perhaps for the bygone parish priest; the modernity of the 1950s, that is, but at this point Villanelle’s expectations are subterranean. 

Then, Eve pushes open the door to a small, rather spartan living room, and there, sitting on the couch in front of the TV, are three people. They all look up, relaxing into smiles as they see Eve, only to grow tense at the sight of Villanelle. 

She takes them in: the pasty, rather nervous guy, or perhaps ‘kid’ is a more accurate term, the definitely attractive woman next to him, and, pressed against the opposite arm, away from both of them, a disagreeable looking man with unkempt hair. He looks like someone stuck a mustache on some fudge.

They stare back at her, and Villanelle smiles. Well, she’s never been afraid of making a first impression. (Good, bad, that is irrelevant, so long as it is first.) “Hi, guys!” Her smile broadens. “You’re the super secret task force, right? It is _so good_ to meet you.”

They keep staring, before looking back at Eve, who just sighs. “This is the new one. Oksana Astankova. Villanelle.”

Their gazes return to Villanelle, who resists the urge to roll her eyes. She plunks down into the empty armchair, kicking her boots up onto the coffee table — the pasty one winces — and crosses her arms. “So, I’ve been wondering for the _longest_ time, ever since dear Eve here swept me off my feet. The most burning question.” She pauses here for dramatic effect and to glance at Eve, who does not resist the urge to roll her eyes. 

“Are you people the good guys, or the bad guys?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait, but we're gonna keep plugging along!! villanelle is so good at making friends y'all
> 
> major s/o to @oksana1/@villhag/twitter user jemma for building and sharing her jemmabot tool which makes posting to ao3 much more painless!!
> 
> ty for reading!
> 
> @lightfighterfic on twitter


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, Elena.” Villanelle sits back, conscious of Eve’s eyes on her. “Your...leader has been awfully vague on the details of this whole...immortal thing. Frankly, I’m finding it a little hard to believe.”
> 
> Elena’s eyes flicker over her, taking in the many splotches of dried blood littering her shirt and pants, both of which have at this point seen better days. “Yeah, but I take it Eve’s given you the physical demonstration?”
> 
> Villanelle grins. “Oh, yes. Very physical. Multiple times, actually. It’s like she can’t get enough.”

Villanelle is not surprised by the long silence her intentionally provoking question is met with; stunning people into silence is part of her brand, after all. 

She _is_ surprised when the woman on the sofa starts laughing. “Oh, god, you can’t be serious.” She smiles incredulously, nudging the worried — only, a little less now — looking guy next to her. “Kenny, did y’hear that? She asked us if we were the good guys or the bad guys. _God_.”

Villanelle’s smile dims. If there is one thing she doesn’t like, it’s being laughed at. She doesn’t like it at all. She much preferred when they were all tense and jumpy. “Is something funny?”

“Yeah, sweetheart, you.” The woman crosses her arms, still looking enormously amused. “Oh man, I forget how you lot can just be so... _human_ , I guess. So willing to reduce things to all one thing or another.”

But Villanelle has zeroed in on only part of the reply. “You lot?”

The woman shrugs, unbothered. “Yeah. You know. Non-immortal folks. Normal people.” She tilts her head consideringly. “Okay, well, I guess you don’t count in that group anymore. But, you’re still fresh.”

Villanelle feels her jaw set. She came in prepared to establish her obvious superiority and smug indifference to these people, immortal or not, and now finds that she does not care for their own clearly established — no doubt over centuries — views on the matter. She turns to glance at Eve, only to grimace when the woman just smirks at her from where she stands, watching the little show unfold. She doesn’t look remotely surprised by any of this, to Villanelle’s irritation. 

“But, anyway,” the annoying sofa woman continues, now looking philosophical, “Good, bad, as if those things mean anything. We do what we think we need to. So I guess you could say it depends on the century.”

Villanelle just looks at her. The woman looks back, apparently unconcerned, and finally the guy next to her — Kenny, apparently — clears his throat. “Um, yeah, I think Elena just means that we deal in shades of grey at times. Comes with the territory.”

“Elena.” 

Kenny nods, still looking uncomfortable. “Er, yeah. And I’m Kenny. And that’s,” — he gestures to the mustache fudge man at the other side of the sofa, who has been silently glaring at her all this time — “Niko.”

Niko grunts. Villanelle gives him a quick once-over before dismissing him from her mind and turning back to Elena. This woman seems to have some spine, enough to catch her attention — after Eve, obviously — and at least seems capable of maintaining a dialogue. Jury’s still out on the dudes, not that Villanelle terribly wants to talk to either.

“So, Elena.” Villanelle sits back, conscious of Eve’s eyes on her. “Your...leader has been awfully vague on the details of this whole...immortal thing. Frankly, I’m finding it a little hard to believe.”

Elena’s eyes flicker over her, taking in the many splotches of dried blood littering her shirt and pants, both of which have at this point seen better days. “Yeah, but I take it Eve’s given you the physical demonstration?”

Villanelle grins. “Oh, yes. _Very_ physical. Multiple times, actually. It’s like she can’t get enough.”

Elena’s eyebrows shoot up at that, before she breaks into a grin of her own, looking over Villanelle’s shoulder at Eve. “Is that so?”

Eve moves into view, her amusement having dimmed somewhat, arms crossed. “She means that she’s a glutton for punishment. Or that it takes a few repeat performances to beat a message into her head.”

“Eve likes it a little rough,” Villanelle adds in a stage whisper. “It’s a good thing I’m immortal.”

Elena snorts, as much at this as the way Eve looks flatly at the newest immortal. “Okay, I’m possibly coming around to you — Villanelle, was it? ‘Bout time we’ve had some new entertainment ‘round here, I am _wasted_ on this bunch, let me tell you. Positively tragic.”

“I can see that,” Villanelle replies smoothly. 

“But you were asking about us. Our fun little condition, or whatever. It’s...complicated.”

“I don’t see how. We are immortal. We cannot be killed. That is fairly straightforward, no?”

“Well—” Elena is cut off. 

“Nothing that lives, lives forever,” Eve interrupts, her voice tight. “We can die.” Her face unreadable, she clears her throat in the now quiet room — Villanelle looking around curiously at the tense looks on the others’ faces — and makes for the exit. “I’ll go take a look on things outside.”

Elena waits until the door has shut behind her, Kenny shifting uncomfortably next to her. “Right. Yeah. Touchy subject.”

Villanelle slouches in her armchair, looking at the door Eve has just left through. Only her curiosity and desire for answers keeps her there; sure, she only met Eve about a day ago, but that was already more than enough time to pique Villanelle’s interest in the acerbic, short-tempered woman. She finds that she wants to go after her. 

But first. Answers. 

“What does she mean, we can die? We are either immortal or we are not. This is one of those things that _is_ all one thing or another, not to sound like a...normal person.”

Elena sighs. “Look, all I can tell you is our experience with this. It’s not like we’ve gone under the microscope or anything. But, well — you died, right?”

Villanelle grimaces. There may be no trace of her death left, but the ambush is still an unpleasant memory. “I did.”

“And then...you came back.”

“Yes, I was there,” Villanelle confirms dryly. “I coughed up a bullet that I think was inside my brain at one point.”

“Mm. Yeah. That happens. Bit gross, I’ve always thought. Like, this stupid thing was already shot _into_ me, now I have to cough it out? It just feels a bit excessive—”

Kenny steps in here, neatly rerouting Elena’s burgeoning tangent with the air of someone who’s done this many times before. “—what Elena is, er, working her way up to is that, as you’ve experienced, we do come back from death when killed. But it’s a finite ability.”

Villanelle’s ears perk up at this. Finite. _That’s_ new. Not that she’s averse to endings, but she prefers them on her own terms. At her own hands, if it comes to it. “What do you mean?”

Kenny glances between Elena and the still glowering Niko before replying. “There used to be another of us.”

“Used to.” Her voice is flat.

Kenny nods, still uncomfortable. “His name was Bill. I never met him, actually — he was before my time. But he and Eve were mates for, oh...centuries, I guess. She found him through the dreams — we get them whenever a new one of us is born. And then, well, they were active all over Europe and Asia for, oh, ages.” He shrugs. “Eve doesn’t really talk about it, but I get the sense that they were quite good at involving themselves in general geopolitical mayhem. If they weren’t starting it themselves, of course.”

Eve and this...Bill. Villanelle does not think she likes this idea. Maybe it is for the best that he is no longer here. “So what happened?”

“Well, he died.”

Villanelle blinks at the bluntness of the statement, and finally, Niko speaks up, looking exasperated. “What Kenny is leaving out in his generous narrative is that those two were more than happy to get their hands dirty, and only enabled each other to up the ante all the time. And when you do that, there’ll eventually be a price to pay.” 

There is an undeniable undercurrent of bitterness to his words, though Villanelle isn’t sure why. Elena cuts in, annoyed. “Oh, give it a rest, Niko. God, must you haul your bloody soapbox wherever you go?” She continues before he can respond. “Yeah, they did stuff that wouldn’t always be considered quite kosher. But that’s what we do. What _you_ do, may I remind you.” 

She turns back to Villanelle, who’s been watching this little spat with interest. “Look, Villanelle. We get hurt and we heal. We die and we come back. This can go on for centuries. But eventually, it runs out, alright? So, sure, for your average person, your average society, we’re immortal. I myself have outlasted more than a few countries at this point, and I’m a baby compared to Eve. But it’s not true immortality. We have a timer like everyone else. It’s just...longer. Much longer.”

Villanelle shrugs off the uncomfortable realization that Elena is very obviously older than her by who knows _how_ many years, that they all are, in favor of more pressing revelations. 

So. She’ll still die, eventually. But it seems like it’ll be a very long time from now. Either way, she supposes, it doesn’t really matter; life has generally been boring, up ‘til now, and death has never carried with it much fear. It was simply a new thing to be experienced. 

That’s still the case, but now just pushed back a bit. 

And there are other things that need to be cleared up. “Were Eve and Bill together?”

This fairly innocuous question, or so Villanelle had thought, surprisingly has Elena smirking with delight, Kenny coughing into his fist, and Niko’s glower intensifying, his stupid mustache bristling. “What?”

“Uh, no, it’s nothing,” Elena says, though her amusement says otherwise. “No, they weren’t. Very close, obviously — centuries of raising hell together will do that — but just friends.” 

(Villanelle doesn’t think she imagines the amused glance Elena gives the very obviously annoyed Niko here.)

Villanelle raises a brow but decides it doesn’t really matter. She is here. Bill is gone. After centuries, but still. Which reminds her… “How old is Eve, anyway?”

They all exchange glances, again, and okay this is starting to get annoying. Villanelle does _not_ like being the new kid. 

Kenny answers after a moment. “Um...none of us really know. All I can say is she predates all of us, and brought us together. But she’s...really old. Like, BC. If I had to guess.”

Villanelle muses on this for a second. “Well, I do like older women.”

Niko chokes on the sip of water he’s just taken in; Elena laughs openly in delight. “Oh, this is gonna be _good_.”

  
  


**

Eve returns shortly after that, when the darkness outside has truly set in, though not before Elena makes clear to keep Bill-talk around Eve to a minimum, which works just fine for Villanelle. Eve doesn’t ask what they talked about, but seems to know anyway. 

That night, after a much needed shower and change of newly-borrowed, somewhat ill-fitting pajamas courtesy Elena, Villanelle falls into the bed cleared off for her in one of the barebones rooms of the quarters, only realizing the depth of her exhaustion when she hits the sheets. Turns out getting kidnapped, deserting the army, getting shot in the knee, and then mostly losing a brawl in an ancient Soviet cargo plane tires one out pretty good. And that’s _before_ the whole “revelation of immortality and induction into secret eternal supersoldier task force” thing gets factored in. 

She wakes up from a dead sleep several hours later with a sharp gasp. It takes some moments, her heart pounding, to realize where she is, that she’s not being treated like a lab rat in some underground facility at Landstuhl, never to be seen again. 

She sits up, feeling far too alert to try to go back to sleep, and then, after a moment, gets out of bed altogether, intent on getting water from the small kitchen down the hall. (And the fact that there is no android waitstaff here is still an absolute _crime_. What an absolute waste of immortality and compounding interest.)

Her steps slow as she passes Eve’s room. The door is ajar, and even in the dim light she can see that the bed is empty, the covers thrown back. 

Villanelle frowns. Eve was quiet through dinner, giving Villanelle a brief, distracted smile before going to bed early. And now she’s disappeared again. 

Villanelle can’t help but feel a bit affronted by this. You’d think the ancient leader of this band of everliving superhumans would show a _bit_ more interest in the brand new addition, especially when the addition in question is as magnificent a specimen as Villanelle?

It’s like she doesn’t even _want_ Villanelle to join her merry band of shadowy world stabilizers/destabilizers. (Villanelle’s still not sure which label is more accurate, not that she really cares either way.)

But, no. This will not stand. Eve found her. Came to her. Wanted _her_. 

Maybe Villanelle should go remind her of that.

(And if some small part of Villanelle just wants to see where Eve went and look at her for a bit, well, that’s fine too.)

Mind made up, she strides through the living room, rolling her eyes as she passes Niko, passed out on the sofa with his mouth open, the TV playing silently and illuminating the dark room.

She shoves her feet into her boots before grabbing a hoodie hanging by the door and pulling it on — and realizing, with a grimace, that it’s probably Kenny’s. Immortal or not, he _really_ needs to figure out how to modulate his cologne usage. 

But whatever. Villanelle is on a mission now, and will not be easily deterred. She slips out the door, intent on finding Eve. 

**

She finds her in the nave, after some minutes of aimless wandering around the church. 

Villanelle has never been one for religion — neither organized groups of people nor placing her faith in amorphous higher powers agree with her — but even she can acknowledge the faded, haunting beauty of the place. The vaulted ceilings, the tall columns and remaining stained glass windows, even cracked and warped as they are, are impressive. Meant to stir awe and reflection in the face of the divine, and all that.

They pale in comparison to Eve, obviously. But Villanelle can give them credit for trying. 

Eve is sitting in one of the few remaining pews scattered through the large space, her legs sprawled out in front of her, and would probably look imposing were she not wrapped in a fluffy robe. 

She’s staring blankly at the remains of the altar when Villanelle approaches, and stiffens briefly before flicking a glance at her and relaxing. “Hey.”

“Hi.” Villanelle’s indignant determination from before has cooled somewhat in the face of the strange zen thing Eve is doing, leaving her a little uncertain and maybe just a tad foolish. She forces herself to go on. “You’re not asleep.” She wants to retract the sentence as soon as she says it.

“Neither are you.”

“No.” 

Eve looks her over. “Is that...Kenny’s?”

Villanelle looks down, feeling more ridiculous by the second. “Um. Yes.”

Eve snorts, but doesn’t say anything else.

Oh god. This is way harder than it should be. “Um...can I sit?”

Eve looks at her again, her gaze a bit more searching now, before shrugging. “It’s a long pew.”

Villanelle takes that as the only invitation she’ll get, and sinks down a few inches from Eve.

They sit without talking for a long moment, Villanelle’s thoughts racing. She finds that she has no idea what to say.

Finally, Eve breaks the silence, surprising her. She lets out a long sigh, tipping her head back to stare at the ceiling high above them, before turning to look at Villanelle. 

Villanelle looks back, unaccountably nervous under Eve’s piercing gaze. 

“So, Villanelle,” Eve says, “What are we going to do with you?”

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been so long, i know...v sorry y'all, brain machine broke these days, but i am determined to continue beating it with a stick until fic emerges. we shall persevere. 
> 
> thank you for reading!
> 
> @lightfighterfic on twitter


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